


mistletoe, mistlefoe

by MonsterParade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M, Mistletoe, Multi, Polyamory, general holiday decorating shenanigans, merry jingle and happy new year!, that's cywhirlgate babeeeeey!, they argue and they screw around and then kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-01 23:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17253752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonsterParade/pseuds/MonsterParade
Summary: Mistletoe is white, not red, you guys. Keep it together.





	mistletoe, mistlefoe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [decepticondragon](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=decepticondragon).



> My Secret Solenoid gift for decepticondragon on Tumblr!! Happy belated holidays, and a very happy New Year! <3

“Hey, look. Check it out.”  
  
Whirl pulled his top half out of the storage container he’d been burrowing in and held something up in his claws, something with strands of colorful plastic clinging to it.  
  
A headband, Tailgate realized, one of those human fashion items like he’d seen on some of their holoforms.   
  
“Cool! Uh...what’s that on top of it?” he asked curiously, watching Whirl futz with the plastic band. It had some strange… _lumpy_ shapes attached to it. Maybe they were supposed to be ears?  
  
“Antlers! You know, like that movie Swerve just made us watch!” Whirl replied. The plastic accessory made a sharp crackling noise as the ‘copter forced it onto his helm, where it just barely clung on due to the size difference. “Check it out, I’m _Randolph._ ” He dangled a round red ornament in front of his face for added effect.  
  
“What?” another voice interjected.  
  
Tailgate glanced over his shoulder.  
  
“You know! It’s the cute little cow with the shiny red nose! From that Earth holiday movie?”  
  
Cyclonus blinked balefully at him from behind the plastic tree he was supporting, his expression as grim as ever despite the colorful affair he’d been roped into.  
  
“… _Deer_ ,” he said slowly. “It’s called a-”  
  
“Yes, _honey?_ ” Whirl crowed, and his optic narrowed delightedly as Cyclonus’ engine gave a soft snarl. Tailgate felt a laugh bubble up from his vocalizer unbidden.  
  
“…The _animal,_ ” Cyclonus said, staring hard at Whirl, “is called a deer. And _you_ look ridiculous.”  
  
“I look hot. You’re just jealous.”  
  
“Guys, guys, come on, be nice! It’s the holidays!” Tailgate cut between them to lay a servo on Cyclonus’ arm, waving his other in Whirl’s general direction, sending a soft pulse of amusement across his EM field to diffuse the faint tension. “Swerve’s counting on us to finish this up! Right?”  
  
The hard red sheen to Cyclonus’ optics softened instantly to ruby in the face of Tailgate’s insistence. He sighed.  
  
“Where should I put this?” he relented, hefting the tree he was holding up in one arm, his free servo brushing lightly across the top of Tailgate’s helm to redirect his attention. Tailgate beamed.  
  
“Oh! Um, over there! In the corner next to the window, I think that’ll look best.” he decided. Cyclonus rolled a shoulder in a shrug and did as he asked.  
  
His fun unceremoniously spoiled, Whirl made a huffing sound and submerged his head again in the crate of decorations, the over-stretched antler headband slipping down and then snapping off of his helm to bounce off the floor and skitter away.  
  
“What else are we looking for?” he asked, his voice muffled inside the box. “I got, like, _stuff_ to do.”  
  
Tailgate hummed noncommittally. As though Whirl wasn’t the one who had invited himself along in the first place…as though his antenna wasn’t doing that increasingly-familiar rhythmic tick, the one that meant he was _happy..._  
  
“Um…mistletoe. Some kind of plant? I think it’s red and green.”  
  
“This?”  
  
Whirl lofted a ring-shaped construction of plant matter into the air, swinging it idly from his claw. It was really cute, with shiny bells and ribbons on it, but…  
  
“No, Swerve showed me some pictures…mistletoe is smaller, and it’s on a string! I think this one goes on the wall?” Tailgate mused. Whirl cocked his head to the side and thought for a second, optic narrowed, before dropping the thing down around his neck, where it rested like a festive necklace.  
  
Tailgate couldn’t help it; he cooed.  
  
“Oh! Whi-i-irl! You look so _cute_ like that! Cyclonus, look!”  
  
Whirl made a harrumphing sound and immediately pretended not to enjoy the compliment, his EM field fluttering softly and betraying how flattered he felt even as he dug in his heels.  
  
“M’not cute. I’m _sensual_ \- I’m the _epitome_ of sex appeal. I’m a gun-toting frag machine.”  
  
“Hm.” Cyclonus replied. He left his place by the wall to return to Tailgate’s side, his head tilted slightly and his arms crossed, one elbow resting on the other arm so he could prop his chin in his hand. Tailgate looked up at him.  
  
“Cyclonus?”  
  
“…You should put the antlers back on.” Cyclonus decided, eyeing the copter. Curious, Tailgate bent down and grabbed the headband for him, tossing it to Whirl, who caught it with the hook of his claw.  
  
“Why?” Tailgate asked, and would have missed the tiny quirk of Cyclonus’ lips if he hadn’t already been looking at him.  
  
“Yeah, why? This _doin’_ somethin’ for ya?” Whirl struck a seductive pose in front of them, his optic dimmed in an alluring manner and the antler headband crooked on his helm. The bells on the wreath around his neck jingled as he moved.  
  
“No.” Cyclonus answered bluntly. His lips, pressed thin, just barely twitched. “I just wanted to see if you would do it.”  
  
“Nooo, you look _adorable_ -” Tailgate soothed, Cyclonus interjecting by adding, “--You look like a sparkling’s toy.”  
  
Whirl’s plating ruffled.   
  
“Yeah? Well _you_ look like a mask of _death_ , but you don’t see _me_ bringing it up.” he shot back. As an addition, Whirl reached around behind him to grope around in the box of decorations and then threw, with unerring accuracy, a green-and-white ornament at Cyclonus’ horn, where it snagged expertly on the sharp tip and hung dangling. “Slagger!”  
  
At the look on Cyclonus’ face, Tailgate and Whirl both burst out laughing.  
  
“There, now we match!”  
  
“Wait, I wanna wear one too!”  
  
Tailgate hurried over to the decoration box to get in on the fun, standing on the tips of his pedes to dig around inside, ignoring the sounds of Whirl badgering Cyclonus behind him. There were glass balls of all colors and sizes, and a loooong string of something like grass, which was too big for Tailgate but would have fit Cyclonus like a boa...  
  
“…Hey, little legs. What did that mistletoe look like again? Weren’t the berries white?”  
  
Tailgate continued digging through the box, distractedly answering Whirl over his shoulder, “Um! Yeah? Er, I think so? It was either white or red…”  
  
Finally, after a bit of digging, he unearthed a glossy pink ribbon from the mass of trinkets and pulled it triumphantly free, to tie in a sloppy sort of bow around his neck where it _just_ fit. He turned back around with a proud hum.  
  
“Ta-da!”  
  
Resting his hands triumphantly on his hips, Tailgate basked in the look on Cyclonus’ face, that peculiar grave expression of his that meant, ‘you’re so cute I’m going to blow a gasket’. Whirl gave him a low whistle.  
  
“You can take a ride on _this_ reindeer any day.” Whirl said, by way of a compliment. It was a testament to how comfortable they all were with each other by now that Cyclonus only grumbled and scoffed, and Tailgate only flushed.  
  
“ _Whirl!_ ” Tailgate laughed. He pressed one servo to his faceplates, bashful. “… …Maybe later. Right now we’ve got work to do!”  
  
Whirl’s delighted echo of “Maybe later?!” was drowned out by Cyclonus clearing his throat (a sound he actually had to make intentionally- a habit picked up from too many Earth movies).  
  
“Tailgate.”  
  
“Mm?”  
  
Cyclonus crouched down to Tailgate’s height, indicating the ornament which for some reason still hung on his horn.  
  
“Is this the ‘mistletoe’ you seek?”  
  
Tailgate took a moment to look more closely.  
  
It too was made of plastic, like most everything else in the box, but it was obviously in the _shape_ of a plant, a little green tuft with clusters of white berries poking out between the leaves. A ribbon with a tiny bell attached kept the thing looped over Cyclonus’ horn, and it chimed sweetly when he moved.  
  
“What- wow, hey, I think it is! Whirl, you found it!” he exclaimed. He beamed up at Cyclonus, the band of his visor stretching bright in a smile and his field smooth with satisfaction. “It looks pretty cute on you, Cyclonus!”  
  
Cyclonus halfway opened his mouth, closed it, and made a stilted rumbling noise.  
  
“N’aww. I knew it. You’re just a big teddy bear after all,” Whirl teased. Cyclonus did not dignify that with a response, but fixed him with A Look, of which Whirl was on the receiving end almost more often than he was not. It didn’t faze him anymore.  
  
“You’re _my_ teddy bear,” Tailgate cooed. He leaned up against Cyclonus’ waist and looped his arms around him to squeeze, pulling back a little afterwards and dragging one finger down the smooth plating of the jet’s midsection. “Right, Cyc?”  
  
Cyclonus’ response after this was a little more strained; a tense and brittle, “ _Tailgate_ ,” that would have sounded quite cross if they weren’t all so used to reading him. As it was, it just made Tailgate giggle.  
  
“Wow. Mech, get a _room_ , you two,” Whirl loudly complained, miming an action that would have been gagging himself had he possessed standard fingers or a mouth. Tailgate made a shooing motion.  
  
“He’s my conjunx, I can hang on him if I want!” He punctuated this statement with a little pop of his foot, leaning in.  
  
With a minute roll of his eyes, Cyclonus began to gently dislodge Tailgate’s servos from his armor.  
  
“We should finish our duties.” he reminded them. “Then,” and here he shot another look at Whirl, “If we so desire, we can ‘get a room’. If you are amenable,” he added, turning a gaze on Tailgate that would be harsh if he were anyone else, but on him was downright loving.  
  
Tailgate flustered and tutted and scuffed his pedes, delighted. Whirl groaned in mock horror.  
  
“Yeah yeah yeah, gimme that ‘ _missile_ - _toe_ ’ and then you can go jingle your ‘junxie’s bells in private.”  
  
Cyclonus grimaced and tugged the sprig of mistletoe off of his horn.  
  
“Somehow, the things you say are still barely comprehensible,” he replied, deeply long-suffering in having dealt with years of Whirl’s bizarre turns of phrase. Whirl just shrugged, and Tailgate barely managed to catch Cyclonus’ wrist before he reached out and handed the mistletoe over to him.  
  
“Oh! --Cyclonus! Wait!”  
  
An idea- or rather, a memory- had just returned to Tailgate as he observed the mistletoe dangling. Cyclonus stopped mid-reach, puzzled, and allowed his conjunx to tug him down into a crouching position to look him in the optics, drawing the ornament back to his chest.  
  
“That’s mistletoe!” Tailgate said. Cyclonus waited a moment, and then when no further explanation was forthcoming, nodded his helm slowly.  
  
“Yes. That has been established.”  
  
Tailgate shook his head.  
  
“Well, yeah, but- no! I mean- don’t you remember? That’s the plant from all those holiday movies! I remember it now! That’s the one that makes you _kiss_!” he exclaimed, his visor lighting up with excitement. Cyclonus’ face twisted peculiarly before his expression settled into something equal parts exasperated and fond.  
  
“We have no reason to observe human customs.” he said, rising back to his feet. “If you wished to kiss me, you only need ask.”  
  
“But it’s a _special_ kiss!”  
  
Looking for backup, Tailgate turned his gaze to Whirl and looked to him beseechingly, tilting his helm to indicate Cyclonus. Whirl’s optic dilated.  
  
“--Yeah, get in the spirit, Cyc-Cyc!” he agreed, and loped over to drape an arm across Cyclonus’ shoulders and nearly drag him to the floor, using the moment when he was unbalanced to swipe the mistletoe from him. He held it aloft in a claw, swinging it merrily. “What, you don’t wanna kiss that cute little face? Someone had better call Ratchet then, because there’s a bigger pole up your aft than usual!”  
  
Cyclonus knew better than to take the bait. This could not have been a more obvious attempt to get a rise out of him if they’d announced it. He observed _Cybertonian_ traditions, not Earth’s, and he would not be swayed by the blatantly transparent efforts of his conjunx and his...whatever Whirl was.  
  
Then Tailgate’s tiny servo reached up to clasp Cyclonus’, and his resolve folded like a house of cards.  
  
He was wrapped around those pretty little fingers and he knew it, allowing himself to be pulled down again to the giggling delight of the minibot. But his pride could take the blow from Whirl’s jeering so long as Tailgate pet his hands along the sides of Cyclonus’ face, fingers brushing lovingly over the empty spaces in his cheeks and his field warm and reading _giddy/contentment/love_.  
  
Cyclonus dimmed his optics and listened to Whirl hoot and cheer as Tailgate reached around to slide away the mask that hid his intake.  
  
It was the most basic of designs, and Cyclonus had seen it many times; a simple ring of somewhat-expandable metal mesh, rimmed by soft, raised rubber to help it seal around things and create the suction for his fuel intake. Further back inside, there was a small grinding mechanism, suitable for more solid foods provided they could get past the rim of his intake in the first place. It was simple, but suited its purpose perfectly.  
  
Tailgate had once been embarrassed about having such a thing instead of a mouth. Cyclonus was gratified to see no hesitation in him now.  
  
“Pucker up,” Whirl sang, ringing the bell on the mistletoe above them. Cyclonus tuned him out.  
  
He leaned in instead, settling onto his knees on the floor and resting a servo on Tailgate’s back to guide him closer. Tailgate possessed no standard optics, but his visor was dimmed in an imitation of hooded eyes and he wiggled with anticipation, forever eager to take as many kisses as Cyclonus would give him and always greedy for more.  
  
Cyclonus closed his optics and pulled him forward, pressing what lips he had against Tailgate’s rudimentary intake and listening to his responding in-vent.  
  
Kisses, from an outsider’s perspective, were often clunky between them; Tailgate had difficulty with kissing back and Cyclonus’ fangs often got in the way, metal scraping metal with a harsher sound than would normally accompany such a tender act. But Cyclonus made up for it with surprising gentleness, happy to cup the back of Tailgate’s helm and slip his glossa across his intake, soothing away any accidental bumps and nipping gingerly at the rubber ring around Tailgate’s mouth when he could catch it between his teeth. It made Tailgate shudder pleasurably.  
  
As Cyclonus dipped his glossa into his conjunx’s intake, just barely brushing the mesh interior, he noted with very distant satisfaction that Whirl had gone quiet, even the usual rumble of his engine stifled. Tailgate made a tiny moaning sound that went straight to Cyclonus’ spark.  
  
“Love you,” he breathed, tilting his face upward and managing to catch Cyclonus’ lower lip on the edge of his intake, sealing around the soft metal to gently tug. Tailgate had that ability; his intake was not connected to his voxcoder and it enabled him to speak whilst his mouth was otherwise engaged. Cyclonus did not possess that particular talent, and could only rumble his satisfaction, deep and loud.  
  
A gentle clinking sound finally drew his attention away from their kiss.  
  
Re-engaging his optics, Cyclonus swept his glossa across his lips and lazily looked up, tilting his head without thinking to allow Tailgate to nuzzle at his neck. The mistletoe was on the floor, abandoned—and Cyclonus briefly caught the yellow glow of Whirl’s optic as the rotary turned to leave without so much as a word.  
  
“Whirl?” he prompted, breaking the silence. Whirl paused just at the edge of the room, hovering in the doorway. He turned his head and clicked his claws.  
  
“Oh, don’t mind me! Don’t lemme third-wheel ya or nothin’,” he said casually, “No _offense_ , big mech, but that’s more of your glossa than I _ever_ wanted to see.”  
  
Tailgate vocalized a pathetic whine and turned his attention to Whirl.  
  
“You’re leaving? But we’re not done! Don’t go!” he complained. Whirl bobbled his helm, shaking it this way and that in a flippant little gesture.  
  
“Whaddaya need me for, short stuff? I think you’ve got it handled pretty well here. Unless you’re telling me you _really_ expect me to hold that mistletoe up the whole time you two are snogging,” Whirl replied. Tailgate looked between him and Cyclonus, pleading with his gaze.  
  
Cyclonus steeled himself.  
  
Whether he liked it or not, at this point Whirl was a part of their relationship as much as he or Tailgate were, inextricably woven into their dynamic. The time when he had been just an acquaintance- just a _friend_ \- was _long_ since past them. It was only Whirl’s learned unease with intimacy that made him backpedal.  
  
“Whirl,” he repeated, firmly this time as he rose to his feet once more. Whirl hadn’t fled yet, only watching from the doorway, and although the whir of his engine kicked up a notch as Cyclonus approached, he did not hear the tell-tale click of his battle systems engaging. That was good.  
  
Whirl eyed him warily, a little flustered and unwilling to show it.  
  
“Aw, you too? Slag off, I got other stuff to do! Didn’t think _you’d_ be a clingy one too, Cyc-Cyc.”  
  
That nickname, while a term of endearment from Tailgate, was utilized by Whirl only in the event that he needed to get a rise out of Cyclonus, and true to form it made the warrior twitch, resisting the urge to retort.  
  
Coming to a halt in front of Whirl, Cyclonus steadily held his gaze.  
  
“You talk too much,” Cyclonus informed him. He stood close to Whirl, nearly chest to chest, well within his personal space and close enough to feel the rumble of his engine thrumming against his plating. Whirl’s claws clacked again and he dipped his head down to stare at him.  
  
The challenge was obvious, the intent clear in Cyclonus’ EM field, and Whirl rose to take the bait exactly as he knew he would, muttering,  
  
“Guess you better find a way to make me shut up then.”  
  
Cyclonus leaned in just the smallest bit more, waiting another tense moment and watching to see what Whirl would do. Whirl didn’t budge- but a soft click heralded the sound of his cooling fans finally turning on, the rotary nearly buzzing with suppressed tension and his frame taut.   
  
Cyclonus tugged him forward by the muzzle of one of his guns and kissed him.  
  
Where he was all gentleness with Tailgate, who was so much smaller than he and disinclined to rough passions, he had no such reservations about Whirl as a fellow warrior type and almost immediately followed the first brush of his lips with a bite, blunted fangs scraping along one of the metal prongs that jut beneath Whirl’s optic casing. He soothed it over with his glossa and was quickly rewarded as Whirl gave a full-body shudder, plating humming under his lips.  
  
“ _Bitch_ ,” Whirl said emphatically, using one of those insults he’d picked up from Earth and was so fond of, and gave Cyclonus no time to puzzle over it as he responded to the kiss in kind with a harsh jolt of static electricity, the tension between them snapping all at once as his claws fixed themselves along the sturdy plating of Cyclonus’ shoulders.  
  
The knife-edges of his pincers would leave marks in the surface of his paint, this he was certain of, but it was _hardly_ the worst thing Whirl had ever done to him with those claws, and Cyclonus automatically returned the gesture by dragging the talons on his free hand down Whirl’s midsection, digging at the grooves and the protoform beneath. It would sting, just a little, but that was the idea.  
  
“Ugh! Slagger!” Whirl groaned, wriggling in his hold. Electricity popped between them as Whirl butted his helm against Cyclonus’ face and zapped him again, a little more gently this time, two in quick succession that made Cyclonus’ lips tingle. Whirl then managed to force the point of one of his prongs past Cyclonus’ fangs, and Cyclonus indulged him and licked it. “That’s not fair! I oughta- I oughta-!”  
  
“Ought to _what_?” Cyclonus asked, dragging his teeth across the metal again as he pulled off of Whirl’s prong a little more reluctantly than he’d intended. Red optics met yellow, and Whirl revved his engine as loud as he could, digging his claws in a little harder. A promise of things to come.  
  
A tiny, wheezy ex-vent sounded from somewhere behind them and snapped them out of their reverie.  
  
The two of them moved to look in tandem; Whirl craning his long neck to see over Cyclonus’ horns, Cyclonus twisting in his grasp and causing slivers of his paint to peel away under his pincers.  
  
Tailgate was still standing right where Cyclonus had left him, stock-still, and he was watching the two of them with rapt attention and his little fans spinning, a servo coming up to cover his faceplate when he realized he’d been spotted as though to quiet himself.  
  
“Sorry,” he whispered, the light of his visor flaring against the edges. “I just... _wow_.”  
  
Cyclonus didn’t quite smile, but it was a near thing.  
  
“Indeed,” he agreed, glancing back to Whirl again and giving him one last lingering brush of the lips before stepping back and disengaging himself. He made sure to drag the tips of his claws along the muzzle of his gun before letting him go.  
  
Whirl was momentarily, blissfully, speechless.  
  
In the brief silence that followed, Tailgate finally seemed to find his feet and came over to join them, scooping the abandoned mistletoe off the floor as he passed it. He pressed himself close to Cyclonus’ side and sighed.  
  
“Do...do _I_ get a kiss too, Whirl?” he asked, his tone aiming for playful but falling just a little flat when his voice cracked on the last word. Nevertheless, he kept his visor bright and hopeful, clutching the mistletoe to his chest and gazing up at the rotary with an expression that would put turbofox puppies to shame.  
  
Cyclonus stifled a quiet laugh. He’d rarely admit it, but Tailgate knew _exactly_ how cute he was, and had no qualms about using it to his every advantage. And by god, it usually worked.  
  
It seemed to work on _Whirl_.  
  
“That’s the rules, ain’t it?” Whirl replied. Now that the ice had been broken, and their desire for him demonstrated, his standard (over)confidence had returned in force and he crouched down without complaint, nudging Tailgate playfully with the flat side of a claw. “And you know me; _stickler_ for the rules. Bring it in.”  
  
Bashfully, delightedly, Tailgate leaned up on his tiptoes and braced his servos on Whirl’s cockpit, nudging his still-bared intake against the side of Whirl’s head. Another thin current of static went _crackle-pop_ between their helms, and Whirl leaned into it, returning the charge. Such a manner of kissing was common amongst mecha without lips and glossa, and while it was less performative than what Cyclonus and Whirl had done, it was no less the intimate for it.  
  
Cyclonus pretended not to feel his spark warming in his chest and let his gaze soften, just a little.  
  
Tailgate nuzzled his face against Whirl with a gentle scraping sound.  
  
  
“... ... _Uh_ \- should I come back _later_?”  
  
  
Everybody whipped around at once.  
  
The sudden movement startled Swerve, who was standing uncertainly in the hallway just outside the room, and he let out a squawk and jumped back as Whirl nearly sprang to his feet.  
  
“Get lost!” Whirl snapped, transparently embarrassed to have been caught this way; he was still decked out in Christmas decorations he had neglected to remove, and as he stood up Tailgate tumbled away from him, his cooling fans rattling while he hurriedly tried to compose himself. “We’re _busy_ here! What are you, blind? _Hoof it!”_  
  
“Sorry, sorry!” Swerve yelped, holding up his hands and scrambling backwards even as a lopsided grin threatened to stretch across his entire face. “I, uh, wow! Sorry! Wow! Gotta admit, that’s-- not what I expected to see—”  
  
“Swerve! Go _away_!” Tailgate exclaimed, and covered his visor with his hands, mortified. Swerve nodded and grinned and backed away around the corner even while he continued to talk, failing to keep the amusement out of his voice as he called, “Okay okay okay! Just, uh, try not to get rowdy on any of the decorations, alright?”  
  
“ _Swerve_!”  
  
“Okay! Going!”  
  
They waited for Swerve’s rising laughter to disappear from hearing range before all the tension left the room in a whoosh.  
  
“Well, hell! You two better be able to put your money where your mouths are, cuz the whole _ship’s_ gonna know about this by the night cycle,” Whirl said, and he was only half-joking. _Swerve_ was the most notorious big-mouth in the history of the universe—and _Whirl_ wouldn’t take kindly to being led on, privately or not.  
  
Cyclonus tilted his head.  
  
“We may as well tell them ourselves then. We wouldn’t want any rumors.”  
  
“ _Yes_! I mean- oh my gosh,” Tailgate babbled, grabbing hold of Cyclonus’ hand, reaching his free servo towards Whirl’s claw, thinking better of it and resting his palm against his rotor instead. “Does that mean that you...? You know? With us...?”  
  
Whirl stared down at him, intensely holding his gaze for a few long moments before he relaxed into a one-armed shrug (he made no move to dislodge Tailgate’s hand).   
  
“...Yeah, sure. Why not? You two lugs’d be a mess without me anyway—I might as _well_ get a little somethin’-somethin’ out of it, huh?” he relented. Tailgate squealed and shook the both of them as he performed one big, excited hop in place, lacking the super-strength he had once had and still managing to nearly unbalance both the bigger mecha with the force of his enthusiasm.  
  
“It’s—it’s a Christmas miracle! Right?” he exclaimed. Cyclonus managed to stifle his sigh.  
  
“We do not celebrate Christmas.” he reminded him, gently.   
  
“ _Christmas miracle!”_ Whirl crowed.  
  
Cyclonus shook his head and simply forfeited the fight. He still had no intention of observing human holidays past this cycle, but...it had been useful for _something_ good, at least.


End file.
